“You were lucky to catch me,” she said. “I’ve only been in two minutes, and I’ve put my waterproof on to go straight out again.”
“Fate,” I told her. “Fate, working in sympathy with our circadian rhythms as part of some great master plan to bring us together. On the other hand, I could have tried your number every minute for the last two days.”
“Oh, and which was it?”
“Fate, definitely fate. So where are you going, young lady, at such a late hour. Didn’t you know that the streets are not safe in this town?”
“It’s the start of Statis week,” she reminded me. “There’s a concert in the square, followed by fireworks. Why don’t you come? I could see you there.”
“Who’s playing?” I asked, as if it mattered.
“It’s an Irish band, called Clochan. They’re pretty good.”
“Right. Great. Where shall I meet you?” I like Irish bands, but I’d still have gone if it had been Emma Royd and the Piledrivers.
Annette was standing at the edge of the audience, near the Sue Ryder shop as arranged, with the hood of her waterproof down even though it was raining. She looked pleased to see me, and I kissed her on the lips and put my arm around her.
“Good weekend?” I shouted into her ear, in competition with ‘Whiskey in the Jar.’
“Mmm,” she mouthed in reply. “And you?”
“So so. They are good, aren’t they.” I sang along with them, to show how hip I’d once been: As I was going over the Cork and Kerry mountains, I met Captain Farrel…and I shot him with my pistol.
We caught the last three songs, finishing with a tour de force rendition of ‘Marie’s Wedding’ that slowly built-up and carried the audience along with it: first swaying to the tune; then clapping and foot-stamping; and eventually dancing wildly, arms and legs flailing. Annette and I looped arms and dozey-do’d, exchanging partners with the couple next to us, until the music stopped and we all ground to a breathless halt. I stood with my arms around her and the rain running down my face as she and the others applauded them from the stage. If the devil really does have all the best tunes he must be a Celt.
The bang startled me. I spun round, heart bouncing, but all I saw was a sea of upturned faces, washed in pink and then lilac as the firework filled the sky with spangles. Annette joined in the chorus of “Ooh” and “Aah” as chandeliers of fire blossomed above our heads, each burst of light a giant chrysanthemum, illuminating the smoke trails of its predecessor until it faded to make way for something even brighter. I looked around at the jostling crowd, their eyes shaded by hoods and hats, as explosions rippled and crackled through the sodden sky. The noise of a machine gun, never mind a. 38, could easily have gone un-noticed amongst all that cacophony.
A single desultory bang signified the end, leaving us with fading images on our retinas and the smell of cordite in our nostrils. “Thank you for the dance,” I said to the complete stranger that I’d been whirling around two minutes earlier.
“I’ll save one for you next year,” she laughed, and her husband looked embarrassed, as if he couldn’t believe it had all happened.
Annette and I picked our way through the crowd heading towards the car parks until I eased her into a side street and steered a course down towards the canal, where it was quieter. “I’m in the multi-storey,” I explained. “But let’s take the romantic route.”
“I’d hardly call Heckley Navigation romantic,” she laughed.
“I know, but it’s the best I can do. I think hot cocoa at your place is called for. How does that sound?”
“It sounds very inviting,” she agreed, squeezing my hand.
The alley down to the canal is the one where Lockwood and Stiles had come to grief, four months earlier. As we approached the end I sensed Annette looking around her, realising where we were.
“This is Dick Lane, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Mmm,” I replied.
“Where Martin Stiles got the panda stuck?”
“That’s right.” Through the day it is blocked with delivery vehicles servicing the shops that back on to it, but at night only courting couples and glue sniffers use it, sheltering in the doorways and behind the dumpsters. Tonight the rain had kept them away, but it was still early. We’d reached the iron posts that prevent the egress of anything wider than a stolen Fiesta. “And these,” I said, fondling one of the rounded tops, “are the items in question.”
“Oh God!” Annette giggled, letting go of my hand.
“What?” I laughed.
“I just…I just…”
“What?”
She shook her head and made gurgling noises.
I put my hand on her shoulder to steady her. “You just what?”
“Nothing!”
I engulfed her in my arms and felt her body shaking as she tried to control her giggling. It was a pleasant experience. “What?” I demanded, turning to shelter her from the rain.
“I just…I just…”
Now I was giggling. “You just what?”
“I just realised…I just realised why they call it…Why they call it…”
I completed the sentence for her. “Why they call it Dick Lane? It was named after the Methodist minister who built this church.” I flapped a hand at the building to my left.
A respectable stream was running down the middle of the alley, and up at the top the cobbles shone yellow and orange with the lights from the square. Halfway along a movement caught my attention, so brief that I wondered if I’d imagined it. A figure stepped out of the shadows and stepped straight back into them.
“If you say so,” she replied, finding a tissue and blowing her nose. “But I don’t believe it.”
“I’m appalled,” I told her. “I can’t imagine what sort of people you mix with. C’mon, I’m soaked.” I grabbed her hand again and pulled her towards the towpath.
The canal was a black hole, devoid of movement or form apart from where an occasional rectangle of light fell on to it and the surface became a pattern of overlapping circles, piling on to each other as the rain increased in force. I stepped into a puddle and said: “I think this was a mistake.”
Annette stopped, saying: “That’s where Darryl Buxton lived, isn’t it?” She was looking at a mill across the canal, converted into executive flats. Buxton was a rapist that we jailed.
“That’s right,” I agreed, looking behind us. I hadn’t imagined it. A figure stepped cautiously out of the end of Dick Lane and merged into the shadows again. He was hugging the wall, gaining on us, and the next opening was nearly a hundred yards away. “Do you have plenty of milk?” I asked, tugging at her arm.
“Milk?”
“Mmm. You know, comes from cows. I like my cocoa made with milk.”
“Oh, I think we’ll be able to manage that. Except mine comes from Tesco.”
“That’ll do. C’mon.”
“The canal looks spooky, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Not as romantic as I’d thought. Perhaps I was confusing it with Venice.”
“How deep is it?”
I looked back but couldn’t be sure if he was there. “I don’t know.”
“Did you swim in it when you were a child?”
“No.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. We went to the baths.” This time I saw him, and he was much closer, moving purposefully but still keeping to the shadows. I stopped to pick up a stone and tossed it towards the water. It splashed somewhere out in the blackness. When I looked, he’d stopped too.
We were nearly at the end of the next alleyway, similar to Dick Lane but without the dicks. It was another service road, cobbled and narrow, and not illuminated. I patted my pockets, feeling for my mobile phone, knowing I wouldn’t find it. “Do you have your phone with you?” I asked, but she didn’t.
“Listen, Annette,” I said as we approached the end of the wall. “When we reach this corner I want you to do exactly as I say.”
